Bird Brain

by Guy Kennaway

  ‘What, are they the latest fashion?’ said the stout man with hairy ears.

  ‘Goodness gracious,’ said Miranda’s mother, a woman with a headscarf, staring at Paul in disbelief.

  ‘Don’t be rude,’ said Miranda. ‘I love them, and the coat. It’s so boring the way everyone wears silly old tweed to shoot. Paul brightens you all up.’

  Soon Paul stood at his peg preparing for the first drive, a larch and spruce plantation. Banger and Atavac crept close enough through the wet grasses to hear Paul’s breathing. Barry Brown, who was not shooting, raised a whistle to his lips to get the drive under way. Paul readied himself, his senses quivering, his heart beating a little too fast for his own liking.

  ‘His feet are placed wrong, and look at the way he’s shaking,’ Banger said to Atavac. ‘This could be even better than I hoped.’

  Two pheasants exploded from the wood, seemed to hesitate in flight, and then banked and headed straight at Paul.

  ‘Now we’ll see,’ whispered Banger.

  Paul raised his gun, aimed, pulled the trigger, bang, and missed.

  ‘Good start,’ Banger said.

  Paul moved over to the other bird and calmly swung through it, squeezing as he went. Bang. He missed again. ‘Ow,’ he said, rubbing his shoulder and then feeling in the wrong pocket for cartridges.

  ‘He’s not got the stock properly mounted,’ said Banger. ‘He’s ten feet to the left of the target. By the third drive he’ll have a nasty bruise on the top of his arm. Perfect.’

  At least a hundred birds emerged from the wood in varying places, and all but a few altered their course once they had seen Paul, and passed safely over him, while he blasted away at thin air.

  Miranda called, ‘Bad luck, darling. Don’t worry.’

  ‘He’s looking at his gun,’ said Banger. ‘That’s a good sign. He thinks there’s something wrong with it. Fool.’

  The horn sounded. As Paul walked with the other Guns to the Range Rovers, Banger heard William say, ‘Heard a bit of action down your end. Hit any good ones?’

  ‘Had plenty of good birds, but must be a little rusty,’ said Paul. ‘I’m afraid I didn’t do them justice.’

  ‘He’s not rusty,’ said Jam to the other dogs, ‘he’s totally useless! His aim’s so bad I’m surprised he can get the cartridge in the chamber. He’s miles to the left.’

  ‘Who brought that idiot?’ Flush shouted.

  ‘He’s nothing to do with us,’ said Jam. ‘My man would have hit all of those.’

  ‘It was a bit quiet at our end of the line,’ said the tall man as he sleeved his gun.

  ‘Kevin will put that right at the next drive, have no doubt,’ said Barry Brown, relighting his cigar.

  ‘I wouldn’t mind if it’s a bit quieter for me,’ Paul said quietly to Miranda. ‘My shoulder’s agony.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Miranda said. ‘You’ll get it right. No one cares, anyway.’

  ‘Wrong again,’ Banger whispered to Atavac. ‘William for one will be livid at the wasted birds.’

  In fact William was very pleased to see such a badly managed drive; he loved seeing Barry Brown fail, and tingled with anticipation at the thought of his face when presented with the even clouds of birds at Llanrisant.

  At the next drive, a wooded gully where the guns stood among the spindly ashes and birches, Paul once again got the lion’s share of the action. The other Guns and all the dogs watched appalled as he missed one bird after another. By the end of it, at which at least a hundred and fifty pheasants had safely overflown Paul, some shouting ‘Yoo hoo! Over here!’ the total bag was four, none of which Paul had accounted for.

  A sickly atmosphere of inadequacy hung around the young man, which the other seven Guns, Barry Brown, and now even Miranda, subtly turned away from when he trudged to the cars where they were quaffing bullshots from silver beakers.

  ‘Here comes Dead Eye Dick!’ shouted Jam.

  ‘Hey, he’s lost his white stick,’ shouted another dog. ‘Any of you Labs good at leading the blind?’

  ‘Sorry about that.’ Paul smiled. ‘Not my day today.’

  ‘We all have our bad days. As long as you’re enjoying it, that’s all that matters,’ said Barry Brown through clenched teeth.

  ‘Oh yes, very much,’ Paul replied with a painfully dry throat. He gulped a bullshot and a pork pie, and hung around the edges of the group, trying not to catch anyone’s eye, asking himself why on earth had he told Miranda on that distant, balmy evening in Corfu that pheasant shooting was his passion (it was after she had mentioned that it was her father’s), and why when she had invited him to her parents’ estate he hadn’t made an excuse and kept well clear.

  When it was time to move off, Paul had to go from car to car looking for a seat.

  On the third drive Miranda stood with her father. Paul pinched the skin of his thumb when he closed the gun and tears of misery squeezed from his eyes. While he rubbed his hand, fifteen pheasants overflew him without even being shot at. Whatever he tried, aiming further in front, swinging slower, swinging faster, pulling the trigger earlier or later, he still missed; it seemed less humiliating not to have a go at all.

  When he did get off a shot, the dogs chorused ‘Rubbish!’ and ‘Wanker!’

  ‘Come on, Paul!’ Miranda shouted. ‘Hit one!’

  ‘That’s not going to help,’ squealed Jam with delight.

  ‘This is an absolute nightmare,’ Paul murmured to himself. ‘There must be something wrong with these cartridges.’

  They came to shoot the sprouts after lunch. The rain had continued off and on, and the ground was squelchy and slippery. Banger and The Rev had already led everyone into the wood, where they were waiting crouched in the decaying undergrowth at its far edge. Forty yards in front of them stood Paul.

  ‘Pass the word back,’ said Banger. ‘He’s directly ahead. There’s a blonde-haired woman standing beside him.’

  The whistle sounded.

  ‘This is it,’ said Banger. ‘I’ll go first.’

  ‘No,’ said Atavac, ‘I’ll go first. You are too important.’

  ‘Don’t be an idiot,’ said Flight 93. ‘You have no speed in the air. I’ll go.’

  He took a deep breath, leapt upwards and flapped his wings, leaving the wood with a clatter. Everyone heard Paul say, ‘Thank goodness it’s not coming over me,’ before Flight 93 twisted and banked, flying at maximum velocity with his wings set for speed in Paul’s direction.

  ‘It’s like they’re aiming for me,’ Paul whimpered.

  ‘Don’t be so silly,’ Miranda said. ‘For goodness’ sake, hit one, it’s getting embarrassing.’

  Paul fumbled with the gun. His shoulder was now like an open wound. He closed his eyes, waggled the gun in the general direction of Flight 93 and fired a shot.

  ‘A mile behind,’ Banger said.

  ‘I thought you said you liked shooting,’ Miranda said before Paul opened his eyes. Then she said, ‘Don’t worry, here are another two.’

  ‘Oh no,’ moaned Paul, fumbling for more cartridges.

  Banger was timing the pheasants to go over Paul just as he was reloading. Everything was going smoothly except that Jenni, standing just behind him, kept saying ‘Now,’ just before Banger did. But with fifty gone there was still not a single casualty. Finally, only Banger and Atavac were left.

  Atavac drew up a proud pose. ‘Now do I feel my death drawing near,’ he intoned.

  ‘Don’t be so stupid, you’ll be fine. Just fly straight and keep going,’ Banger said.

  ‘And escape my fate?’ Atavac smiled. ‘Impossible.’

  The panting of the dogs, and the clicking, tapping, whistling and rustling of the beaters grew louder. If the dogs got a scent of him they would take Atavac on the ground. No keeper would stop them today, with a bag this small.

  Suddenly, Flight 93 flew down beside them.

  ‘What are you doing back here?’ Banger said.

  ‘I’m going round twice,’ he laughe
d. ‘Can’t resist it.’

  With a clatter of wings, he ascended from the wood and kept on climbing until he was high in front of Paul, but then, instead of sailing over his head, he hovered, as though to taunt the human.

  ‘He’s pushing his luck,’ Banger said under his breath.

  ‘Surely I can’t miss this,’ Paul chuckled to Miranda.

  Flight 93 shouted back at Banger and Atavac, ‘Watch this!’ Paul swung his gun wildly awry, pulled the trigger and missed. As he fumbled for more cartridges Flight 93 let rip a bowel-full of ripe, juicy and noxious shit. His aim, in stark contrast to Paul’s, was inch perfect, and he splattered Paul’s face, head and jacket.

  ‘Good shot, sir!’ shouted Banger.

  ‘Here,’ said Miranda, ‘I’ve got a Kleenex somewhere.’ But the paper hanky wasn’t big enough; she couldn’t get the mess out of his hair, and just smeared it across his jacket.

  Snarling dogs and beaters were now visible as flashes of brown, white, flesh and camouflage behind Banger through the trees.

  ‘Come on,’ said Banger, ‘we’ll go together. One, two, three …’

  He took off with Atavac.

  ‘Follow me,’ Banger called back.

  Atavac flapped madly, saying, ‘Oh isn’t this fun,’ through a clenched beak.

  ‘Faster!’ urged Banger.

  Atavac closed his eyes. He heard the boom of a gun but nothing touched him. He set his wings and glided into a thicket beyond the Guns.

  ‘All present and correct?’ Banger was saying when Atavac landed.

  ‘Yes,’ said Jenni.

  Banger turned to Atavac and smiled. ‘Well done,’ he said.

  As the Guns boarded the cars Barry Brown approached Kevin.

  ‘What on earth is going on?’ he said. ‘I expect better than this, Kevin. If we don’t look out we’re going to have a bag of under twenty. It’s a disaster.’

  ‘Oi can put the birds over the Guns, sir, but it is incumbent upon your guests to occasionally hit one,’ said Kevin.

  ‘Yes,’ said Barry Brown, ‘but most of the party have barely had a single shot, my daughter’s friend apart. Make sure it’s better this next drive.’

  But the news had spread from wood to wood and cover to cover: there was a truly useless Gun who couldn’t hit you if you hovered over his barrels. And he was easy to spot – he was now splattered in pheasant faeces.

  It was and will remain a legendary day’s shooting for all pheasants, and word of it spread far and wide across the country. Flight 93’s name went down in pheasant lore as a god among game. Songs were sung of his courage, and dances of his derring-do were enjoined wherever pheasants came together for fun.

  By the end of the final drive, the wind dropped and a thick duvet of cloud hung over the Cheshire plain, releasing heavy and steady rain that fell vertically without break, forming puddles and filling ditches, gurgling, splashing and dripping as dusk fell. The pheasants of Marfield were already starting the celebrations that would last late into the night. Banger, The Rev, Atavac, Jenni and Flight 93 walked happily back through the woods towards the sprouts.

  ‘It won’t be as easy as this every week,’ said Banger. ‘That boy really had absolutely no idea at all. We’ll have to use different tactics.’

  ‘Like what?’ asked Flight 93.

  ‘Well, we could just walk out of the wood right past the Guns.’

  ‘Certain carnage,’ Atavac said, ‘but beautiful in its way.’

  ‘Not the case. You see they can’t shoot you on the ground,’ Banger explained.

  ‘Kevin shot Ronny on the ground,’ Jenni said.

  ‘Ronny can’t fly,’ The Rev pointed out.

  ‘Precisely,’ said Banger. ‘Flying game, that’s us, can never be shot on the ground, unless we are injured. But then the dogs will usually get us.’

  ‘But if we walked up to the Guns the dogs would grab us,’ said Flight 93.

  ‘Not if they are well-trained, as most of them here are. The properly trained gun dog will not touch a bird unless it has blood on it. So we’ll be safe from them.’

  ‘What’s to stop them breaking the rules and shooting us on the ground?’ asked Atavac. ‘I only ask because I have actually seen humans at play.’

  ‘They can’t do that, or rather they won’t do that,’ said Banger. ‘It’s not sporting.’

  ‘Oh, it’s not sporting?’ Atavac said. ‘I’m afraid I’m none the wiser.’

  A twig snapped close by, and they peered through the glossy wet rhododendron to see what it was. There, walking in the drizzle down the woodland ride, was Paul. The cars must have left without him, so he was making his way back to the house on foot.

  ‘So,’ whispered Flight 93, ‘if I walked out in front of him he couldn’t shoot me.’

  ‘Absolutely,’ explained Banger. ‘You see, it’s just not done.’

  ‘Why can’t he aim and pull the trigger?’ asked Atavac.

  ‘A gentleman just wouldn’t do it. Watch,’ said Banger. ‘I’ll show you.’

  ‘Do be careful,’ said Jenni.

  ‘I do know what I’m doing,’ Banger huffed to Jenni. He ducked his head, pushed out of the bottom of the rhododendron bush, and was soon standing right in the middle of the track, barely twenty feet in front of Paul. The human looked as though he had taken a whipping. His shoulders were sloped downwards, his head hung miserably, and he dragged his feet. There was still bird dropping in the hair that rain had plastered to his head.

  ‘You see?’ said Banger to his friends. ‘Perfectly safe.’

  ‘Banger knows,’ Flight 93 said, stepping out of the bush and joining him.

  Paul looked up and saw the two birds on the track, took a quick glance around, and with a wince, shouldered the gun. Banger was at that very moment looking at Jenni saying ‘It’s safe to come out. A gentleman would never shoot a bird on the ground, and shooting pheasants is a sport for gentleman, or at least men pretending to be gentlemen, so you can be absolutely—’

  KKKERBANG. The air was thick with whizzing dirt and stone and a crater exploded under Banger. Paul couldn’t even make a direct hit on a stationary target at twenty feet. Banger cried out in pain and was hurled to the ground, wounded in his right wing near the shoulder, and bleeding. He couldn’t get back on his feet, and lay there flapping feebly.

  Jenni rushed out of the bush. She screamed, ‘You’re not meant to do that!’ at Paul.

  ‘Get out,’ Banger croaked. ‘He’ll shoot you too.’

  ‘All right,’ said Atavac, turning round and hurrying deeper into the bush.

  Flush, alerted by the shot, careered round the corner and galloped straight at Banger, his dribbling jowls hanging open.

  ‘Run away!’ shouted Banger to his friends.

  Even though Flight 93 stood in the path of the Lab, shouting ‘Here I am if you can catch me,’ as provocatively as he could, Flush swerved round him and pounded straight at Banger.

  Banger staggered to his feet, and started running like he had never run before, his heart hammering in his chest, adrenalin racing through his body and his mind screaming, SURVIVE, SURVIVE, SURVIVE. He plunged through brambles that grabbed agonisingly at his wing, feeling bone grind on bone, but forced himself forward. He emerged in a spongy clearing carpeted with needles but could still hear Flush crashing through the undergrowth behind him. Banger ran on, down a bank, tumbling and somersaulting, in dagger-jabs of pain, across a track, up and over a hummock, and down another slope onto a bed of black nettles. A fence reared up in front of him, and he forced himself between two strands of barbed wire, hearing the bone click in his broken wing. He limped across the corner of a tussocky meadow and glanced back to see the dog vaulting the rusty fence, gaining on him. Then Banger heard his voice: ‘I’m coming to get you, you little shit-treader, I am coming to crack your pathetic neck …’ Then Banger heard something else – a car passing fast on a road, and saw a flash of white through the hedge ahead.

  It was his only chance. He hurled h
imself through the hedge, across the verge and onto the tarmac, swerving right and running up the middle. He could now hear Kevin shouting, ‘Flush! Leave it! Leave it! No, boy, no, not on the road! Come back. Come back!’

  Flush, as though remotely operated, stopped in his tracks and watched Banger limp to the other side of the road and collapse in a puddle of oily water. The Labrador shrugged, turned and disappeared through the hole in the hedge.

  The light was now fading, and the rain came in more densely, speckling the beams of the headlights as the cars sped past. Life drained inexorably out of Banger. He couldn’t stand up, he couldn’t move either wing, his feathers were sodden and heavy. The game was up. He closed his eyes and waited to die.

  Part 2

  Tooth and Claw

  19

  Purr It So Softly

  WATERY SUNLIGHT FLOODED Cary’s sitting room, giving its muted tones an air of ineffable calm and peace. Locket was warmly settled on a grey velvet cushion beside Cary, loving the way she coordinated with the bluey-greys of Cary’s cashmere jumper. The door opened and William came in wearing pink trousers, a bright blue shirt and a sleeveless yellow jersey, ruining the effect. He sat down next to Cary, and sniffed in the direction of Locket.

  Locket knew how it went from here, they’d done it countless times. William, under Cary’s watchful eyes, grudgingly welcomed Locket onto his lap, gave her two strokes, waited for Cary to smile, then took Locket by the skin on the back of her neck (pinching her far too hard) and gently set her on the floor. He had once dropped her and Cary had scolded him. It was always the same; but Locket had decided to call a halt to it. She wasn’t letting William get between her and Cary so easily.

  Locket climbed onto William’s lap. William sniffed.